


At Dusk, I Will Think of You

by SantaManana



Category: Samurai of Hyuga (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Married Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 16:21:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21449131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SantaManana/pseuds/SantaManana
Summary: It's a simple life, but it's theirs.  An ex-ronin and an ex-emperor after the end of everything watch another sunset together.
Relationships: Ronin/Emperor Satsuma (Samurai of Hyuga)
Kudos: 10





	At Dusk, I Will Think of You

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to @darappi, whose ronin Aya is featured in here (and also, cheers to all Satsu-mancers out there, your ship is rare, but still out there!)
> 
> Think of this as a continuation of the Ronin/Satsuma epilogue from One Night, Many Stars.
> 
> Title comes from the Kingdom Hearts 358/2 Days Soundtrack, which I think fits this story really well.

Aya’s hands are chapped from the cold. Calloused. Scarred from a lifetime on the road. Night after night, in a sleepy voice, Satsuma asks her to tell him where and when the marks on her hands came from. Aya obliges. She thumbs the leathery texture of her hands from handling red-hot iron rods for training. She points to a white stripe crisscrossing the lifeline on her palm from a bandit’s knife. She touches a rounded blemish surrounding her thumb: punishment from a stray dog when she was young and dumb enough to try to steal its scraps. He always kisses them: the scars, their stories, the woman who starred in them. 

Satsuma’s hands are softer but still a bit rough. Despite rubbing oil into his palms and skin nightly to keep them soft and smooth, more and more callouses are appearing. There are bumps and nicks on his fingers from handling splinters or accidentally cutting himself with the knife during long, contemplative hours of woodcarving. His hands are slowly transitioning from the softness of nobility to the coarseness of commoner life. But Aya doesn’t seem to mind. She always holds his hand or plays with his fingers or shivers when he traces her neck with the lightest of caresses, as gentle and as quickly gone as a snowflake melting on the tip of a tongue. 

Hands that have brought death. Hands that have blessed a nation. Hands that have clutched at dirty rags and other orphans. Hands that have run over the finest of silks and clasped together in prayer to the Lion God. Together these hands are conjoined as Aya and Satsuma watch another sunset together. 

They share no words, only silence. In front of them, village life continues. Children run around playing with their toys or chasing each other. Mothers scold them while fanning the hearth flames or balancing the laundry basket on their hip. Fathers wipe the sweat off their brows as they finish working in the fields for the day. This life was totally different from anything Satsuma and Aya had experienced before but they wouldn’t trade it for anything else. For a chance to settle down, unknown and unbothered, and revel in small comforts like this: watching the slow descent of the sun through the sky, leaving behind trails of pinks and reds and oranges in its wake while the married couple held hands.

Aya turns to Satsuma with a brilliant smile that he returns. She squeezes his hand. It says everything: the words in Aya’s mind as she watches Satsuma carve more toys for the village children, the words in Satsuma’s heart whenever he heard the villagers laugh at another one of Aya’s jokes.

It says:

_ I love you. _


End file.
